


Zero Syndrome

by gingeringfigs



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014)
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, M/M, Strangulation, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:19:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3644985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingeringfigs/pseuds/gingeringfigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.</i> - Nietzsche</p><p>Love shows itself in strange ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zero Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> This can get pretty triggering and unsettling for those not comfortable with child abuse/depression. So read with caution.

“You are just like your father!” The fury screams, her face twisted and red-blotched in wrath. You lie stunned against the wall and your cheek is starting to sting, the initial numbness from shock fading. The inside of your mouth tastes of copper.

Something drips from your lips and you quickly wipe them with your hand, not wanting to anger your mother further if you accidentally stain the dark mahogany floor. A smear the same shade as your mother’s dark crimson lipstick appears on the back of your hand. Her dark eyes flash, catching your movement and you tense when you spot the moment she sees the stain. How will your unpredictable mother react this time? Will she shriek and claw at the stain; out, damn’d spot, out I say! Or will she -

“Oh, my dear boy, did I hit you too hard?” Your mother’s fury evaporates, leaving behind a sweet loving woman who now coos and frets over your red cheek. Your heart beats a rapid tattoo as you summon a weak smile and say, “I’m fine, Mom.”

Your mother pats your bruised cheek a little too hard with her elegant manicured hand; “You’re a strong boy, like your father… If only he was here.”

You stay quiet and continue to smile even as your cheek burns under her touch and your mouth continues to fill with blood. You are five years old.

 

Late in the evening, your father returns. He is weary, his body drooping from the weight of his suitcase, jacket and woes of the day. Your mother is resplendent in a pale cream gown with pearls around her neck and dewdrops hanging from her ears. She greets your greying father with a smile, asks him how his day was and ushers him to the dining room where his dinner is beautifully arrayed on fine china plates on the glass table. You have already eaten earlier, not wishing to be trapped in the pantomime of etiquette and domesticity your parents engage in.

“How is the food?” Your mother asks, the picture of decorum, her sleek hair neatly bobbed around her chin. She tightly adheres to the ideal of _yamato nadeshiko_ with her neat French manicured nails, playing the dutiful wife to her husband.

“It is good.” Your father says, as he dabs at his lips with the white napkin. His black-rimmed glasses glint in the dim light as he sips the claret wine from his glass. He says nothing more and your mother’s face becomes a porcelain china mask as she lifts the bottle to refill your father’s glass with mechanical precision. You bite your lip and quietly go up the stairs. You already know how this pantomime will play out.

 

Summer cools into autumn, the vivid and sharp colours melting into muted warm tones like the dying embers of a blazing fire. An earthy, damp smell rises with the cool mist from the soft loamy soil where dead leaves have gone to rot. The sun is slow to rise and quick to set.

When the housekeeper, a stout weather-beaten lady with a thick southern drawl (“Call me Nana”), comes round to tidy up the house once a week, she tut-tuts at how cold the house is. The first thing she does, without fail, is to fuss at the hearth in the main living room of your house. She stokes the coals in the hearth with a long fire iron and coaxes the fires to life. The intense heat and glow of the flames tint the bland white walls a summery yellow and lively shadows dance. Not surprisingly, you spend most of your time next to the hearth with a book you pilfer from your father’s study.

Your mother remains in her boudoir; you imagine that it is a dark shadowy place where she broods and festers like Lady Macbeth. Or perhaps, she is Ophelia in her melancholic moods. The housekeeper does not go into her lair and neither do you. The housekeeper briskly goes about her chores, humming a wordless tune as the fire crackles and pops in the hearth. As always, your father remains absent.

When the housekeeper’s chores are done, she collects her fees from the table in the hallway and gives you a piece of candied ginger to chew on, “See you next week, laddie!”

You eat the candied ginger as you wave goodbye to Old Nana. Its sweet spice warms you inside out as you head back inside the house. The fires are starting to die and your mother has emerged from her boudoir, her dark eyes reflecting the orange flames. You stiffen and gulp.

“Nana was here, wasn’t she?” Your mother asks as she runs her finger across the mantelpiece. You say, “Yes. She just left.”

“I see. Tell Nana that she is not to light the hearth next time she visits. She always forgets. I don’t like ash and smoke dirtying my home,” your mother imperiously orders. You timidly nod.  

When Old Nana visits again, you inform her with lowered eyes that your mother does not want the hearth fires to be lit. Nana frowns and puts her hands on her hips, “Laddie, you have got to be freezing in this big empty house; it’s already so cold and snow is coming soon! Is your mother _mad_?”

You shrug and say, “She doesn’t like the smell of smoke.”

“What does your father say?”

“I don’t know. He is never home.”

“What about you?”

“I’m fine, Nana.”

Old Nana gives you a lookover; you must look small and fragile in her eyes, a small child who is barely 6 years old and yet already the master of the house. She sighs and pats you on your shoulder, “Very well, laddie. I trust you have sweaters you can wear?”

You slowly nod. You do have sweaters but more often than not, they are too large for you. You literally swim in swathes of itchy wool when you wear one, so you don’t wear them.

Nana nods. The house grows cold and colder as autumn passes into winter.

 

The lesser said of winter, the better. Short days fade quickly into long wintry nights of black and white. You bury yourself in the thick tomes you steal from your father’s study and huddle under your blankets for warmth. Your mother takes to haunting the living room where she waits with a pot of white tea. Bone china clinks and chimes whenever your mother refills her cup. When you need to refill your mug with hot water, you have to pass the living room to the kitchen. You do it as quietly and quickly as possible, so as to avoid gaining the pale wraith’s attention in the living room.

Once, you came across a photo of a beautiful woman. It was a small, tiny thing, with foxing around the edges and sepia-tinted with age. It would have been easily missed, if not for the fact it had been tucked away among the pages in one of the books you stole from your father’s study. The title of that book was, “ _The Tale of Genji_ ”.

It takes you a while to recognise the woman as your mother in her youth. She was vibrant and full of vigour, so vastly different from the lifeless shadow in the living room. You wonder what happened to the woman in the photo to have changed her so? You have many questions but you neither have the strength nor courage to break the heavy silence of the empty, cold house.

If your mother is the ever-present ghost haunting the living room, then your father is the absent ghost that lingers in the study. Gold, silver, and brass plates declaring his many accomplishments hang on the walls. Bookshelves that creak under the weight of their well-thumbed tomes line the walls. A massive black ebony table with iridescent mother-of-pearl inlays, a family heirloom inherited from your maternal grandparents as dowry, sits below the window that opens to snowy fields and a grey sky. Stationery stands upright like soldiers in a penholder. Blank papers are tucked neatly away in the drawers. A few formal family photographs sit neatly along the far edge of the table against the wall. Your father rarely uses this table – your mother orders Nana to keep it spic and span, just in case he returns home early.

When you have finished reading the books to the last word, you come to this silent study and return the books to their shelf. What books shall you read this time? You run your fingertips along the rough spines of the books, reading their titles in hushed tones, “ _The Poetics of Space_ ”, “ _Lawrence of Arabia_ ”, “ _A_ _Tale of Two Cities”,_ to name a few.

You finally pick out “ _Beyond Good and Evil_ ” by Nietzsche.

 

Winter slowly melts into spring. White snow gives way to lush green as pale pink and white sakuras bloom on the tree in front of your window. When the breeze blows in the right direction, scattering delicate petals into the sky, you can catch their ephemeral perfume. You are now 6 years old; your birthday having passed you by during winter.

Old Nana continues to come to the house to clean. She gives you a large beribboned jar of candied ginger and winks, “Your birthday gift, laddie! Better late than never!”

The new spring season is mild and your mother improves. Her sharp words soften and her gestures slow. Your hopes lift but you remain wary. You don’t know how long this gentle mood will last. Still, you can’t help but drift closer to her, like a moth to flame. You’ll risk it. These moments, where your mother treats you kindly with a loving smile and gentle hands, are so fleeting and precious that you want to hold on to them, despite the inevitability that they will vanish like melting snow drops. Your mouth burns as you slowly savour the candied ginger but they’re so honey-sweet on your tongue.

 

Spring intensifies into summer, pastels blazing into jewels and the air is heady with the scents of fruits from a nearby orchard. On a hot cloudless day, the sky had been so blue and clear that you were tempted to lie down in the grass and spread your arms, imagining you were a bird. But there is only so far your mother’s kindness can stretch; she would not be pleased if you soiled your clothes with dirt and grass-stains. Instead, you sit on the bench in the front porch with a book open in your lap as you gaze at the blue sky.

One day, your father proposes to your mother that you go on a summer camp to the lakeside; a boy of your age ought to be out having fun in the outdoors and not stay cooped in. After all, isn’t this summer a lovely one?

Your mother doesn’t wring her hands. Instead, she lowers her head and looks at her husband in askance, her deeply ingrained manners forbidding her from questioning him directly. Your father takes her hand and pats it.

“Our boy will be fine,” he says. He gives your mother a small smile, “I would like to spend more time with you, my dear.”

Your mother’s blush is as pink as spring sakura flowers.

 

Autumn arrives again with little fanfare. This time, your mother permits Old Nana to ignite the hearth fires. The house no longer feels so cold and empty despite your father’s continued absence. Your mother resembles the young woman in the old photo more with each day as she softly hums in the living room with her ever present pot of tea.

You watch Old Nana make orange marmalade in the kitchen; sugar and citrus mixing into a heady scent redolent of summer. She nods sagely in the direction of the living room and her brown eyes twinkle, “Aye, it is good to see the mistress look so well. If my guts tell me no wrong, this house will hear a new pair of pattering feet.”

You scrunch your brows; a new sibling? The idea is foreign to you. Old Nana chuckles and dips a small teaspoon into the thick dark stew. She passes the teaspoon of marmalade to you and says, “Careful, it’s hot!”

The marmalade wobbles and is nearly about to fall off the small teaspoon onto the floor. So you quickly shove the spoon into your mouth and scald your tongue. You gasp and Old Nana clicks her tongue as she trundles to fetch you a glass of cold water, “Laddie, I said it was hot!”

The marmalade is deliciously bitter-sweet and tart. As you soothe your tongue with the iced water, you ponder how your mother will treat your new sibling. Your mother continues to hum a lullaby in the living room and Old Nana echoes her song as she stirs the pot of marmalade.

 

Your mother’s stomach gradually swells, as inevitable as the change of seasons. The idea of a new sibling is still strange to you but you’re warming up to it. It becomes real to you when your mother beckons you close and says, “Come, the little child is moving.”

Your mother looks serene. You carefully reach out and press a small hand to the curve of her round, heavy belly. You feel it. A small tap that pushes against your palm. _Oh._ You can’t help but marvel. This is your new sibling. You look up at your mother and ask, “When will they be born?”

“They will come when they are ready,” your mother says as she puts her hands over her belly. She continues, “My dear boy, I have a feeling that this one will be a boy like you.”

“How do you know?”

“A woman’s instinct.”

She gives you a small smile as she reaches down to comb through your hair, “Do you know the meaning of your name?”

“Loyalty?” Your voice rises in a questioning tone. Your mother’s hand cups the back of your neck. She nods, “Close. It means _faithful servant_. ”

“Do you know why I gave you the name?” she asks absently, her dark eyes pinning you in place. You don’t blink as her nails lightly scratch your skin. Your mother’s gaze slides to the window. She murmurs, “You are your father’s heir. You are proof of my filial piety and faithfulness.”

Her nails dig into your skin but thankfully, your mother lets you go, “Leave me. I grow weary.”

Your knees wobble as you leave the living room. The house feels cold again as the fires have gone out.

 

Your baby brother finally arrives with the advent of spring. He is so small in the cot when you see him for the first time, drowning in the swaddling clothes wrapped around him. Your mother is resting in her bedroom, exhausted from childbirth. Your proudly smiling father asks, “Would you like to carry him?”

You fret. None of the books you read ever told you how a baby should be held. You stammer, “I’m afraid that I’ll drop him.”

“You won’t. Here, just hold your arms like I do and be sure to support his neck,” your father instructs and you imitate his pose. Your little brother is placed in your arms and he’s so light that your fears about dropping him dissipate. You curiously peer down at his little scrunched red face, unsure of what to do next. Your father tells you, “His name is Hiro. I wish for his future to be abundant like his name.”

 _Hiro_ , you mouth your new sibling’s name. You look down at little Hiro again and greet him, “Hello Hiro. I’m glad to see you.”

Little Hiro stirs in your arms and coos like one of the white doves you sometimes hear from your window. Your father comments, “Ah, you probably shouldn’t wake him. Let’s put him back so he can sleep.”

When your father takes Hiro from you to put him back in the cot, Hiro noisily and loudly protests. He refuses to calm despite your father's flustered attempts to soothe him. Consternated, your father pushes up his glasses and mutters, “Oh dear. You weren’t this temperamental!”

"Let me try," you suggest. You reach into the cot to lift the wailing Hiro up into your arms. You don't expect to succeed where your father failed but to your pleasant surprise, Hiro stops crying. With more strength than you’d expected for a newborn, he grips onto your shirt and refuses to let go. Your father strokes his chin, “Oh my, Hiro seems to prefer your company more than mine.”

You look down at Hiro’s tiny hand gripping your shirt with wonder and you shyly smile, “I’m glad.”

You are now seven years old.

 

With little Hiro, the house doesn’t feel so empty now. Your mother tires more easily these days, still weakened from labour so Old Nana is offered a free guest room in the house as a live-in babysitter.

But Old Nana turns down the room, satisfied with only a pay raise and explains, “Of course, I’ll be more than happy to come in everyday to help look after the new baby! I’m just more comfortable sleeping in my bed; these old bones are picky.”

When summer break finally ends and you have to go to school, Old Nana looks after Hiro. Thankfully, Hiro takes to her easily enough and does not make too much of a fuss. It also helps that Old Nana is extremely experienced with babies. When you have some time to spare, you ask her to teach you how to look after Hiro. Old Nana can’t be around all the time after all and your mother’s lethargy prevents her from looking after Hiro, so Hiro’s welfare is your responsibility. You don’t mind the new responsibility, not when little Hiro is such a joy to be with, his freely given affection a kingly reward. You quickly forget what it had been like before Hiro became part of your world.

“Oh, where has Hiro crawled off to? Tadashi - ah! I see he’s found your way to you,” Old Nana puts her hand to her cheek and shakes her head with a rueful smile when she finds Hiro soundly asleep in your lap. You put a finger to your lips as you continue to stroke Hiro’s back. Old Nana chuckles and quietly says in hushed tones so Hiro does not wake, “Hiro should have been named Houdini! One moment, he’s here and the next, he vanishes. That one is a future troublemaker, alright!”

You grin, amused by Hiro’s antics. Fondly looking down at Hiro, you comment, “I wouldn’t know. He never gives me any trouble.”

Old Nana arches a brow, “My, he’s got you wrapped around his little finger! I’ve never seen an elder sibling quite so devoted as you to their younger siblings.”

Your grin drops. You glance up at the ceiling and shake your head, “Hiro’s got no one else to look after him aside from you and me. You know how our mother is.”

“Ah yes. She’s not well, is she? Has she already seen a doctor?”

“Well,” you hesitate, “I think she doesn’t want to see one unless it’s my Dad.”

Old Nana frowns, her forehead furrowing in deep lines. She tut-tuts, “Does your father know?”

“I don’t think so. He’s so busy at the hospital.”

Old Nana ponders, “Has she been like this since she gave birth to Hiro? It might be serious.”

“I’ll let my father know,” you assure her as pinpricks of foreboding dread crawl under your skin.

 

You are startled awake one stormy night by a loud banging noise. Your heart pounding in your chest, you look in the direction of the cacophony. Your windows have been thrown open by the force of the gales and they’re rattling hard against the walls. It is a miracle that the glass panes haven’t shattered yet. Rain pours into your room and leaves a growing puddle. Cursing under your breath, you quickly climb out of bed and rush to the windows. You are inevitably soaked by the rain when you finally close and lock the windows after much effort of straining against the gale. Cold and wet, you obviously can’t go back to sleep now. Much to your tired irritation, you have to clean up the puddle and change into dry clothes before you can sleep.

You drag the bathroom mat from your bathroom over the puddle and leave it there to soak up the water. You towel yourself dry and change into a dry set of pyjamas. You take the wet bathroom mat back to the bathroom and hang it over the rack to dry. Now you can return to sleep. But you don’t. Instead, you lie sleeplessly in your bed as you stare at the ceiling. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles. In the deafening silence that follows, you almost miss a soft cry. You sit up. You hear it again. As realisation hits you, you’re already on your feet and dashing to Hiro’s room.

After you throw open the door to Hiro’s room, you stop short. Someone is already in the room. Behind them, little Hiro cries as the heavy rain pours. Lightning cracks again, briefly lighting the room in stark blinding white. You whisper, “Mom?”

Your mother doesn’t seem to hear you. She is occupied with the crying Hiro and you hear her sing a lullaby, “Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop/When the wind blows, the cradle will rock/When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall/And down will come baby, cradle and all...”

When the lullaby finally ends, Hiro has quieted but you remain fixated at the door, staring at the dark shadowy figure of your mother. She is too still. Something glints momentarily in the window. You think it’s lightning at first but no thunder rolls. Your eyes widen as you yell, “ _Stop!_ ”

Your body seems unbearably sluggish to your mind as you throw yourself at your mother as she raises her arm over her head, a butcher’s knife glinting in the moonlight. Hiro sees you and calls you, “Dada!”

Your mother shrieks when you knock her to the floor, the knife flying from her hand to land some distance away. None of her grace and composure remains as she turns on you, “Why did you get in my way?!”

“I can’t let you hurt Hiro!”

“It’s the only way to keep him quiet! Your father doesn’t like his sleep to be disturbed. Don’t you see?”,  your mother is smiling so serenely like she has found enlightenment and you are utterly terrified of her. You reposition yourself, making sure to keep Hiro behind you, away from your mad mother. You desperately plead, “Mom. Please stop. Hurt me if you must, but don’t hurt Hiro.”

Your mother croons and reaches out to cup your face, “No, my dear Tadashi, you are your father’s heir. You are indispensable.”

Her nails are long and sharp and you find it hard to breathe with her floral perfume clogging your lungs. You shake your head, “No, no, no. Hiro’s Dad’s son too! He’s my brother!”

“He is only a spare. But you are the first.” Your mother’s implacable and her smile is so eerily calm. “Now, will you obey me like a good little boy you are? Step aside, I do not wish to have to reprimand you.”

You waver, instinctive fear of your mother warring with your concern for Hiro. Thunder booms, startling Hiro into another crying fit. Your mother’s eyes flash in irritation, “He will wake your father soon if he’s not dealt with! Step aside!”

You lower your head as in defeat and your mother smiles. But you soon straighten your back and lift your chin. With your heart in your throat, you look at her and quietly say, “I refuse. It’s my job to protect Hiro.”

Your mother’s face turns into a blank mask. She doesn’t say anything and she slaps you hard, sending you to the floor. Before you can get up, she wraps her hands around your neck and squeezes, “In that case, I’ll get rid of you first!”

You struggle to breathe as you futilely pull at her hands crushing your throat. You can’t even make a sound. Your vision starts to grow spotty and Hiro’s cries become impossibly louder. Lightning flashes across your eyes and you dimly hear a thunderous roar. Then everything turns dark.


End file.
